“It’s a girls’ weekend,” she purred, “but I promise to be back Sunday night. Maybe I can stop by here first before I head to Momma’s. If it’s not too late.”
He rolled on his back and pulled her on top of him. “Little Man and I’ll be waiting.”
They left the house the next morning before dawn, the temperature hovering in the low thirties. Hercules curled up on Trudy’s lap as the Tahoe sped east on Curry Avenue. At the New Mexico state line, Clay pulled over and went inside a convenience store and returned with two coffees, bananas, and granola bars. “Figured you’d wanna eat healthy.”
She smiled at his thoughtfulness, at the way he tried to please her without going overboard. He was easy to be with, said he liked seeing her without makeup, her hair pulled in a high ponytail.
Hercules yapped and scrambled out of her lap and jumped into the backseat. He circled a few times to get comfortable. Clay swung the Tahoe left instead of driving through a wide railroad crossing. They motored north a short distance and pulled over at a picnic table under a large sycamore tree. Clay put the Tahoe in park and let the engine idle so the heater could run. They sipped coffee, munched breakfast, and watched the sun come up over the horizon.
“I used to come here sometimes to reflect, especially after I got divorced.” Clay gestured with his chin toward the east, across vast fields of winter wheat and other crops still hidden under the cover of darkness. “Sometimes I’d end up going running. Not much traffic out on these farm-to-market roads.”
“But why this particular spot?” Trudy took a bite of granola, savoring the chocolate chips and oats. “Look around, all you see is Texas.”
“Yup, as far as the eye can see.”
The Chihuahua snored softly from the backseat.
Hector’s words drifted through her mind. My cousin, he carried a torch for you for years.
An airliner headed west, its lights blinking high above the earth. Trudy leaned forward, pointing it out to Clay. “Have you ever seen Eastern New Mexico from thirty thousand feet? It looks like a patchwork quilt of circles and squares.”
Clay smiled. “You get circles when farmers use center pivot irrigation.”
“Aw, so that’s how those are formed. And here I thought it was because farmers drove around in circles when they plowed their fields.” They both laughed and she continued, “I finally taught Momma how to track my flights on the internet. I’d give her my flight number and she could follow the little jet icon on her computer screen. About the time my plane flew over the state line, she’d run outside and look. I’d call her after I landed and half the time she’d say, “Darling, did you see me wave my dishtowel?”
Clay chuckled and took a sip of coffee and leaned his head against the back of the seat. “I used to think of you every time an airliner flew over. One time when Cinda was about eight, she said to me, ‘Papa, how come you always look to the sky?’ I told her, ‘Somewhere up there is a girl I once knew.’ She got all serious and asked, ‘Did she die?’ And I said, ‘No, baby, she’s a stewardess.’”
Trudy stopped chewing and tried to swallow the last bite of her granola bar. Tears welled up and she looked away, not wanting Clay to see her cry.
“And then Cinda said, ‘Is she the girl in the prom picture you keep in the shoebox in your closet?’ And I said, ‘Yes, she was my first girlfriend.’ And Cinda said, ‘Papa, Mom’s jealous of her.’ And I laughed and said, ‘Are you?’ Cinda rolled her eyes and said, ‘No, Papa. I want to meet her.’”
Trudy laughed through her tears but it came out a snort. “Cinda sounds like an old soul. I hope I get to meet her one day.”
“Me, too,” Clay added softly, his fingers tapping the steering wheel.
Trudy gazed at his profile a moment. She wanted to tell him that every time she flew over Pardon, she tried to get to a window and look for certain landmarks like Main Street and Seven Mile Road. If she had time, she’d follow the highway leading west past Momma’s house to the air base and the runways running north and south and east and west before being called back to check on her passengers. But after hearing Clay’s story, she wanted to sit there quietly with him, and drink in the sunrise.
“I’m thinking about retiring next year.” His voice broke the silence. He stared out the windshield, sipping his coffee.
She picked up the other banana and peeled back the top. “What will you do? Police work has been your life.” She took a nibble, but her heart quickened.
The sun rose higher on the horizon, the fields bathed in gold and pinks. A flock of Canadian geese honked overhead and landed in the field in front of them.
“Well, that depends.” He continued to sip his coffee. “On where things stand with us.”
A sharp yip came from the backseat. Hercules jumped onto the console between them, his big round eyes staring straight ahead as if he wanted to watch the sunrise, too.
Trudy twisted in her seat. “I’d say it’s looking good so far.” Her gaze drifted past two pointy ears to Clay’s dreamy eyes, twinkling back at her with a mixture of love and mirth.
Maybe once he retired, she would tell him everything. But until she met with Aunt Star, all she had to go on were a few hunches, a fuzzy memory, and a pair of eyeglasses hidden in the back of her trunk.
Clay reached for his phone. “I’m not a big fan of selfies, but I promised Cinda I’d get a photo of us together. You okay with that?”
Trudy objected: “But, Clay, I don’t have any makeup on and…”
“Neither do I,” he teased.
She leaned into him, the sides of their heads touching as Clay held the phone at arm’s length and said, “Cheese.”
Right when Clay went to snap the photo, Hercules popped his head up and posed.
CHAPTER 24
An Old Activist
Las Vegas, New Mexico
Friday, November 18, 2016
THE PINK adobe with the American flag hanging upside down from the front porch eaves filled Trudy with a mixture of pride and dread. For Aunt Star to flip the flag in front of her charming bungalow in a gentrified neighborhood of Victorian mansions, storybook cottages, and small Italian villas meant one thing: she was furious at the outcome of the election.
If Aunt Star gave a hoot what her neighbors thought about the inverted flag, she didn’t act like it. In a pair of knit slacks and thicksoled shoes, she stood at the top of the porch steps and waved her cane in the air like an extension of her arm while she waited for Trudy to get out of the car. A row of fake shrunken heads left over from Halloween grinned ghoulishly from the top of the porch rails. Mr. Grumples, Aunt Star’s fat tabby tomcat, perched on one end of the rail, swishing his fluffy tail as if he ruled the neighborhood.
Taking a deep breath, Trudy exhaled, pushed opened the door, and climbed out. Flashing her brightest smile, she slung her purse over her shoulder and greeted her mother’s only sibling. “Afternoon, Aunt Star. I see you sent the welcoming committee.” She gestured toward the porch. “You plan on leaving them out through Christmas?”
Aunt Star shrugged, her once strong shoulders rounded with age under her thick sweater. “You mean the heads? Shoot, why not? Their eyes glow red and green when you plug them in.” Her soft features broke into an impish grin. Although Star was two years older than Jewel, her plump cheeks and neck appeared less wrinkled than her younger sister’s.
Trudy laughed and mounted the steps. Where her mother was slender, Aunt Star was big boned. As Trudy hugged her, she found her aunt’s extra layers of padding reassuring, such a contrast to her mother’s bony frame. “Those heads are pretty ghastly,” Trudy said, stepping back. “Do they scare off trick-or-treaters?”
“Nah, I still ran out of candy this year.”
“Knowing you, that’s ’cuz you dole out the good stuff.”
Aunt Star gripped the foam handle of her cane in both hands. “Personally, I find those fake heads a lot more attractive than the bumbling bully we’re subjected to every time you turn on the TV.
Come inside. Mr. Grumples and I will show you around. It’s been eons since you were here.”
The cat hopped off the rail and brushed against Trudy’s ankle. She bent down and rubbed his soft head and furry neck. He greeted her with a loud purr.
“Mr. Grumples can’t stand him either,” Aunt Star said, raising her chin toward the flag and tapping her cane against the porch floor for emphasis. “He took great offense when he heard that fool bragging on TV about grabbing women’s lady parts. Mr. Grumples is a feminist, you know.”
At that, Aunt Star opened the door and the cat darted inside.
As Trudy glanced back at the flag, Aunt Star said, “That’s some fancy sports car you’ve got there. Let’s take it when we go meet your sister for our private tour of the Castaneda.”
They both turned to gaze at the silver Camaro sitting in the narrow driveway, the front grille splattered with bugs from Trudy’s three-hour road trip. “It’s fun to drive. It has a lot of getup-and-go.”
“Shep would approve, no doubt about it.” Aunt Star’s words lingered in the air as yellow leaves fluttered about, dancing onto the porch from a mature American elm standing guard over the tidy lawn.
A trio of pumpkin candles flickered from the white mantel, the votive holders glowing deep orange and filling the small living room with a spicy scent. Native American pottery of every size and shape lined the shelves on one wall, leaving space for framed photos and books. Aunt Star had been visiting reservations and pueblos for years and her collection of native artwork had grown. She had a flare for decorating, and each pot, each kachina or storyteller, had its place. Trudy called it organized chaos, but instead of feeling hemmed in by all that art — like her days with Preston — she found Aunt Star’s home warm and vibrant.
The walls were plastered Navajo white, the perfect palette for Southwest art. Various hues of pinks and raspberries mingled with turquoise and creams around the room, from the large area rug bursting with geometric designs of corals and greens to pillows tossed across the sand-colored couch and a flamingo pink throw over the back of Aunt Star’s tan leather recliner. Splayed open next to her chair sat her magenta paisley knitting bag with various shades of yarn peeking out. There was no doubt about it: pink was Aunt Star’s favorite color, right down to the exterior of her home and the frosty pink lipstick she still wore at eighty-one.
“I had the whole place renovated since last time you were here. Come on, let’s go see the kitchen.”
Trudy set her purse on the coffee table, her attention drawn to a framed poster of Georgia O’Keeffe’s famous painting “Chama River, Ghost Ranch” hanging next to the television. As she ambled toward it, she felt pulled by the blue waters snaking through an arroyo of red and tan bluffs dotted with green scruffy brush. “I’ve seen this image dozens of times over the years, but I never get tired of looking at it.” She turned to gaze at Aunt Star. “You ever wish you could step into a painting and stay there? Like this one?”
“Shoot, yeah. Sometimes I turn off the TV and stare at it. I imagine myself floating down that river without a care in the world. Then my smartphone snarls at me with one news update after another, and I’m reminded that a con artist with an overinflated ego will be moving into the White House come January. What an insult.”
“You can turn those notifications off if you get tired of them.”
“Nah, and miss the world crashing around us? I have a hunch that everything we’ve worked for the past fifty years will be rolled back. I hope I’m wrong.”
“Have you been following any of the women’s movement pages on Facebook? Georgia’s friend, Lupi, told me about a group of women who are trying to organize some national protest. Maybe around the inauguration.”
Aunt Star let out a weary sigh. “I’m too old to still be protesting this shit. Can you see me creaking along in some march?” She raised her cane and pointed it toward the front door as if shaking a stick in warning. “But protest I will. Heck, I started the day after the election.”
“How long you gonna keep the flag upside down?” Trudy glanced in that direction.
“As long as it takes. Or until they wrestle me into a box and shut me up for good.” Aunt Star put her cane down and hobbled toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I can set out some cheese and crackers. We can sip some spirits before we go meet your sister.”
“Sounds good to me.” Trudy followed dutifully behind, hoping Aunt Star would serve something besides hot toddies.
Mr. Grumples looked up from his dish when they entered the U-shaped kitchen with butcher-block countertops and sparkling white appliances. “My contractor tried to talk me into granite and stainless steel but you know me, I have to be different.”
“I like all the white. It reminds me of you in your old nursing uniforms,” Trudy teased. “I still picture you like that sometimes. All starched up from head to toe.”
Aunt Star leaned on her cane. “I was so glad when we switched to scrubs. A lot more comfortable.”
A baker’s rack stood next to the wall by the entry, a bevy of small plastic bags containing various sizes of knit caps took up one shelf. Trudy picked up a forest-green cap, the only one not in a bag. “You do beautiful work, Aunt Star. I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She set the cap down. “Think of all the people who are wearing your caps right now.”
“They keep your head warm, that’s for sure. I need to sew my special label on the inside of that green one.” She picked up a tiny rectangle of cloth and handed it to Trudy.
Turning the label over in her hands, Trudy admired the lettering stitched in hot pink: Handcrafted by Star Hurn. In the top right corner, she fingered a tiny falling star stitched in yellow. “Did you sew your labels inside Momma’s caps? I never thought to look.”
Aunt Star nodded. “Heck, yeah. That’s my trademark,” she quipped. “Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket,” she crooned in a wobbly voice. “Perry Como. It was a big hit before your time.”
Trudy placed the label in her aunt’s hand. “Georgia and I made wishes on falling stars when we were younger. We thought they’d bring us good luck.”
Her aunt set the label on top of the green cap and sighed. “Luck. It must’ve been in short supply on November eighth. Sorry to grumble, but I’m having a hard time accepting this huge defeat. I hope I live long enough to see a woman president. We owe the suffragettes that much, that’s for sure.” She moved toward the refrigerator. “Why don’t you go bring in your things, and I’ll fix us a nice snack.”
Outside, Trudy breathed in the pleasant scent of piñon and aimed her key fob at the Camaro. The trunk popped open as a late model car cruised by, the white-haired male driver rubbernecking to get a closer look. She couldn’t tell if the driver’s pensive eyes were gawking at her or the flag. Laughing, she gave him a two-finger salute — the universal peace sign — and the car sped up and kept going. As she reached into the trunk to retrieve her suitcase, her gaze fixed on the lumpy gym sock she’d stashed in a corner next to her toolbox.
For now, the gym sock would stay hidden in the trunk. Trudy would wait for the right opening, and then show Aunt Star the eyeglasses. No sense getting her visit off to a bad start.
Lugging her suitcase up the steps, she rolled it through the living room into the spare bedroom by the hall bath. She plopped down at the foot of the double bed and gazed around, recalling the last time she’d stayed at Aunt Star’s years ago. She’d come for a weekend visit after flying into Albuquerque and renting a car. Georgia had just bought a house a few streets over and was camping out in one corner of the living room while the whole house was undergoing a renovation. Aunt Star had insisted Trudy stay with her, even though Aunt Star’s friend, Bernie, short for Bernice, was also visiting that same weekend. At the time, Trudy didn’t give it a second thought that Bernie slept in Aunt Star’s bedroom.
Old photographs, many from the sixties, covered the wall facing the foot of the bed. One showed a younger Star Hurn barefoot in ratty cutoffs, her volu
ptuous breasts braless and drooping beneath a T-shirt, her strawberry-blonde hair parted straight down the middle and cinched in a ponytail at each ear, a headband strapped around her forehead. She was at some rally, holding a sign that said, “Women Demand Equality.”
Trudy pushed off the bed to get a closer look at another photo that captured her eye. There was Star in her mid-fifties, wearing baggy jeans, her long hair shorn. She was sitting on a campstool outside a tent, the flap open. Beside her stood her friend Bernie, tall and rigid as a board, her thin lips always at the ready with an eager smile, a twinkle in her kind eyes. Bernie was a veterinarian from West Texas. Trudy had always assumed that Bernie and Aunt Star were best friends, but Trudy wondered if there was something more to their relationship. For Aunt Star had never married, and Trudy had assumed her capable, independent aunt was happier living alone, being a nurse, being far away from Pardon. But now she wondered: Were Star and Bernie a couple? And if so, how sad they had to keep their relationship a secret, as if it were something that must be hidden, something to be ashamed of.
Bernie had been dead twenty years. A nephew had taken over her veterinarian practice.
Back in the kitchen, Aunt Star directed Trudy to slice an apple and Swiss cheese and arrange them on a small platter with wheat crackers and a clump of grapes. While Trudy prepared the snack, Aunt Star hooked the crook of her cane over the lip of the counter and set out two pink depression era wine glasses. “A little vino is good for the soul, I always say.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Trudy joked.
Uncorking a bottle of Burgundy, Aunt Star filled their glasses halfway and handed one to Trudy. “In the words of some of our greatest activists, ‘We shall overcome.’”
Trudy lifted her glass. “I consider you one of them. You’ve been fighting for women’s rights for decades. I’m sorry I never appreciated it until now.”
Aunt Star tilted her head in thought. “Women’s rights are human rights, are they not?”
The Flying Cutterbucks Page 22